


Ravishing Grimness

by dr_zook



Category: Bandom, Darkthrone (Band), Until the Light Takes Us
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Bandom - Freeform, Bathory, Black Metal, Burzum, Canonical Character Death, Count Grishnackh, Darkthrone - Freeform, Fenriz, Inspired by Real Events, Kate Bush, Kreator, M/M, Nocturno Culto, Norway (Country), Self-Mutilation, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Until the Light takes us - Freeform, hiking metal punks, i mean you know what had happened right?, mutilation of others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Am I asking for too much when I want my drum-kit to stay where it is? I mean it's a good drum-kit, it behaves when I'm not around and it's house-trained. You guys at least only have some amps and guitars, but hey: the kit kills me these days. Fucker. As soon as we have the record deal, we'll be rehearsing in my fucking <i>living room</i>, I swear."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravishing Grimness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liriaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriaen/gifts).



> Hey, comments are welcome! But maybe the 2k readers think this sucks, so I don't want to read _their_ impression. ;)

[Prologue] Equimanthorn

At that very moment when the beginning furore reaches its peak and starts to roll out, grooving out that heavy and fierce mantra of a refrain Gylve grips the knife tighter, and has to drive one, two, three slits in rapid succession through the skin of his forearm.

It's too much. The riffs are too overwhelming; the sway surges over him, encloses him, and plucks too many strings at once.

Franticness condensed: it's midnight's cold fingers that clasp lanky Gylve's wrists and shove him back on his bed, against the rumbling wall of this childhood home. He heaves and feels his breath being wrung out of his nostrils, and his arsehole is clenching as his body becomes tense and overburdened.

It's even more powerful than jerking off to Kate Bush. _You don't want to hurt me / But see how deep the bullet lies / Unaware I'm tearing you asunder / There is thunder in our hearts._

Side A is done, the stereo's pick-up softly clicks and the turntable slows to a halt as his tautness is ebbing away eventually. He throws the blade away and purls tired: "Fucking Swede." Stares at his battered arms and adds another string of expletives for good measure.

 

Snowfall

"Fuck, man. It's that time of the year again, huh?"

Ted nods. It's in the year of the Lord 1988, and he picks at the fringes of his jacket: a way too light leather jacket for Norwegian winter. That's why there is a grey, woollen sweater beneath. Gaze is cast down; he's staring at some part of his right shoe. "Maybe I can slip away when they go to attend Christmas Mass," he mumbles in his scarf.

Gylve snorts and his eyes gleam. "Of course you won't! They'll drag you with them. Drag you by your cute little ears along with them." A cig dangles from one corner of his mouth. "Fuck it, let's just get over this parody." He's scuttling a bit to keep the coldness at bay as long as possible, numb fingers shoved deep into the pockets of his scuffed jeans. "I'll organize us some booze and pick you up afterwards. Don't wear headphones, dude. I'll rap against your window."

Ted nods again and stares after Gylve who has already turned to leave, fiddling with his walk-man and pushing the volume control to the max: _His hair is black, his eyes are glowin' red / He's seeking for you, he wants to rape you._

Three days later they have reached the -at this time of the year- forsaken bench in front of the old church where Darkthrone had rehearsed for a few weeks. It had been Ted's idea and the custodians thought it was okay until the _neighbours_ , for fuck's sake, started complaining.

Twice a week now they're hauling their equipment into an old bomb shelter Ivar found in Tårnåsen when they want to play; and afterwards they have to haul it out again, because the owner's paranoid. Gylve doesn't know why exactly, but he's sick of it. Fucking _sick_ , man. He has left Tårnåsen for a _reason_.

He shoves snow from the wood and plants his ass on the back of the bench, fizzes open the first beer can, and flings the rest of the six-pack at his boots. Ted climbs besides him and tucks the fair fringe out of his face and under his wool cap.

"I envy you," Ted says and helps himself with a beer.

Gylve shrugs. "Sure." He sucks some slopped beer from his fingers. "I envy you as well."

Ted frowns and makes an asking grunt.

"Yeah. I mean, I started before you to let my hair grow out and yet yours is longer than mine." He twirls a handful of greasy strains and puts them behind a protruding ear. "See?"

Ted snorts and shoves him playfully. "You know what I mean."

"Of course." Gylve knocks back a healthy swallow. "It's better now, for me. Better for them. That I'm living on my own, I mean." He fiddles with his can. "I can concentrate more on my stuff now."

Ted nods. His steady breath is hovering in front of him. "I also thought about--"

"No, man. You didn't," Gylve cuts in. "Don't fuck this up." Ted glares at him, but Gylve laughs. "Hey, I didn't forget what you told me when you explained to me that new recorder: You said you want to teach others, probably children... _things_. How to _not_ fuck things up. I think you'd be good at that, really."

Ted would be the perfect teacher, Gylve thinks: being always calm and patient. Patience, man. Like a great owl, sitting all night on their branch until some rodent is careless enough to scurry past the tree. Closer, baby: closer. That's just right, _yes_...

Gylve shakes his head. Now, that was unrequested. "Just you see," he says grinning. "Give us a few more months and we'll have a fucking deal. My web is woven, I have some ideas about a few labels. And the Snowfall tape, man," he looks directly at Ted for the first time that night, "that tape is _stellar_."

Ted smiles and empties his beer, throwing the aluminium behind them. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"Of course I am."

"Overconfident moron," Ted says fondly.

"You see, I'm really glad you joined us. And I can't wait leaving that fucking bomb shelter," Gylve trickles on. "Am I asking for too much when I want my drum-kit to stay where it is? I mean, it's a good drum-kit, it behaves when I'm not around and it's house-trained. You guys at least only have some amps and guitars, but hey: the kit kills me these days. Fucker. As soon as we have the record deal, we'll be rehearsing in my fucking _living room_ , I swear."

Ted can't stop smiling. The still-wrapped Christmas gift package from Gylve inside his jacket pokes against his ribs, and he knows the other's vision is within reach. He feels it under his fingernails and at the tip of his tongue. It's palpable, it's near.

 

Quintessence

"What about _him?"_ Ted's voice is calm and insistent. "Where is he?"

Him. _That whack-job?_ _Gone?_ Gylve wonders what to say. _Not my type?_ Eventually he blurts, "They arrested him; because of Øystein." He swallows, tries to sound nonchalant - and fails. A weak little laugh, then: "They say he stabbed him to death. _Killed_ him." A defiant huff. "I can't believe it, no: I _don't_ believe it."

"Oh, shit," Ted eventually says. And: "I told you to not underestimate that guy."

"I... never saw that coming. I think I should, no? All the time we spent together; he wanted us to do a new project together, too." It's pouring out of Gylve now, and it's better that he doesn't have to face Ted. Not this time, maybe next. "I told him that's a no-go, because, hey: _you_ are my man." Another weak laugh. "Right?"

"Right," is all Ted can say before Gylve goes on.

"I thought it could work out, though, you know? There _was_ something... I could _sense_ it!"

"Gylve, are you drunk?" Ted's voice sounds calm and concerned.

"Fuck _yes_ , I am! What do _you_ think? Do you have an idea what's going on here? No, you _don't_ because you're fucking _miles_ away, man!"

"Gylve," Ted tries. "Calm down, come on. Please."

"No, I'm not!" You can hear Gylve pacing, shuffling through his room. "Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!"_

"Gylve, listen: I'm taking the first bus tomorrow. It's too late for today."

"Fuck. Fuck!"

"Gylve, answer me. Did you understand what I just said?"

A long moan, then: "Fuck, yes. I do."

"Okay, good. Listen: don't do anything dumb, right? Don't talk to journalists or something. Do you have to work tomorrow?"

"No. No, I have my day off," Gylve sighs, slightly calmer now.

"Right. Then I'll be at the bus station at noon. Pick me up, will you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good."

"Ted?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm hanging up now; I think I'm gonna vomit. Sorry, man." And he hangs up.

 

In His Lovely Kingdom

If Gylve was a girl he would scoot a bit closer to Ted. Trying to warm him up a bit; he feels his own energy brim and it's leaking anyway all the time. And Ted seems to be freezing a bit although Gylve cannot fathom why. He's not as skinny as himself, no. Okay, since he had cut off his beautiful hair he's maybe more cold?

So, don't get this wrong when Gylve fantasizes about scooting closer to Ted. He wouldn't dare to touch him, of course. But his own sizzling aura sure has to have some effect on him, right? And: Ted is none of that shallow, feather-brained and giggling chicks who are popping up near Gylve. Throwing themselves onto his lap and hanging at his shoulders. He sighs.

"What?" Ted chews bewildered around his sandwich.

"You should thank me that I postponed your birthday gift, so now it's June, not March. In March we'd be freezing our balls off here. At least yours would freeze off, aged only 25 years," Gylve guffaws. "Not mine, because I'm a fucking _pro!"_

Ted rolls his eyes, "Whatever."

Gylve counts his fingers: "I chose a new trail, built up the tent _and_ lit the camp-fire; you, sir, could be a bit more thankful."

Ted swallows. "Fuck you. I organized the food and beer and weed. You know I'm of no use for you out here. You knew that before. Don't act as if I did nothing but my best. Besides, it's my birthday gift, like you said."

Now Gylve rolls his eyes. "Right, and I even brought you _two_ extra sleeping pads, princess."

Ted flips him off and leans contently back on his elbows, a tiny belch simmering through his vocal chords.

Gylve misses the banter with Ted; fuck, why did he even move that far away from Oslo? It takes Gylve about three fucking hours public transport to get to Trysil, and then Ted has to pick him up with his car. Six years later he knows every road, every trail here by heart and yet. Phones aren't their friends. Gylve needs the physical presence of others to be assured that he's really _with_ them. Not just a crackling voice at his ear, but miles away.

And since this year Ted actually refuses visiting Oslo on a regular basis; the old guys, the _scene_ (or whatever's left of it), they all piss him off - or bore him. Gylve doesn't know for sure. You would have to bribe Ted somehow to come there, because there was some spiffy new recording toy or what the fuck the guy currently gets off on.

Ted shoves the last bite into his mouth and crumples its empty tinfoil wrapping. "You stay till Sunday? We could rehearse a bit; I could get a hold on a few good riffs and wonder what you think of them."

Gylve smirks and takes the tinfoil from Ted's fingers to put into the battered plastic bag he brought along for rubbish disposal purposes. "You know that I probably love them."

"And you know that they're nothing without your lyrics."

"Now you flatter me just because you don't want to get more firewood."

Ted smiles and looks straight into Gylve's eyes. "Yes. But what about us going together? You could show me at least for what kind I have to look for."

"Right," Gylve admits and has to swallow.

The other's dark eyes gleam and Gylve wonders if he ever noticed before that Ted has the most perfect nose he ever saw adorning a human face, a living human's face around him. It's extraordinarily well-proportioned with that tiny cusp, being the centre of that both dure and soft countenance. His hair has the colour of a smooth winter's sunrise, and even as short as it is now it's feathery soft like underfur. Or, well, it _has_ to be, because of course Gylve won't pet him.

Later they sit in front of the tent. The beer cans are popped up in their boots, so they won't keel over and spill. Four socked feet are wiggling close to the slowly dying fire, and they pass a joint. The bright canopy of summer stars almost makes Gylve weep; his mind feels wide and easy.

"I miss you," he says then out of nothing, after maybe half an hour of companionable silence only disrupted by some hefty carbonic burps.

Ted's laugh sounds small. "Sure you do."

"No, really. You--" Gylve gesticulates something complicated. "You looked after me. Since you're living _here_ it's much more harder for me to fit in at home. To fit around others, you know?"

"Gylve--"

"Sometimes I think you did it right, because you left that Moloch before everything crumbled and became stale." Gylve takes a drag from first the beer, then from the spliff. "You were the one who saved others. To tell them: stop, don't do this. Don't fuck this up. Don't fuck _yourself_ or _us_ up, please?" A small forlorn laugh. "I mean, there was Ivar - way back in time as it seems now. You're still in contact, right?"

"Kind of," Ted acknowledges. "I call him about four times a year? Maybe. Sometimes he even calls _me_ , but we haven't really met often since then." He shrugs.

"Are you happy now?" The question is half serious, half incredulous.

Ted and his small laugh. You wouldn't think that he can tear a house down with his booming pearls of laughter which erupt from time to time. "I guess so."

"Say, do you plan on getting kids for yourself?"

Ted belches. "Yeah, we're working on that."

"That's good." Gylve snuffs the rest of the joint and he keeps on telling so himself throughout the night. Because he saw Ted's placid features illuminated by the soft glow of the famishing camp-fire. It's the moment he realizes that there was more than one wilderness, more than one wildness.

 

Striving for a Piece of Lucifer

Gylve is hunched over his drum-kit. A skinny Quasimodo fiddling with chopsticks, hidden behind his hair curtain. Threshing the skins, because he hates them. He _hates_ playing instruments; never learned them properly. And yet there is no other way, no other road for him to take.

In his frenzy he's far away from the only other living thing in this godforsaken place: Ted. Actually, it looks like he would be ignoring him, but that's not correct; and Ted knows that. For Gylve is fighting his own battle, and he can't look after a comrade. Not now, not in this very moment.

Later, when they're lolling on the sofa, clinking their green bottles against each other's - yes: then they are two again.

Gylve, who couldn't sit still at all. Only weed used to slow him somewhat down, but in the beginning he had claimed it would fog his artistic visions. Ted thought that sounded too much like Vikernes, had shrugged and used to give him another beer. But alcohol made Gylve only fickle and effervescent. Spiteful and gassy. It was this combination, which drove Ted eventually away, among other things.

Now it is only Gylve's scrawny ass behind that kit, and the faster he blasts it over, the sooner they're done. Hopefully recorded like they want it as well. Ted knows that the other would kill him if he tells him for the tenth time today that he has to do it again.

Ted's aware that his drummer also hates it when he urges him friendly on - without a word but with perpetual nodding. At least when he's standing half behind him like this, there is the slight chance to cover in time should Gylve decide to throw his drumsticks at him.

You should wonder that he's not more twisted than he is with that childhood and late youth; when coeval acquaintances blow out their brains with a shotgun and your probably closest friend two years later kills his band mate for very dubious reasons.

You should be thankful that Gylve is 'only' stuck in the late 80s and declares with that lopsided smile of his: "I'm living a lie, man. That's why I'm playing old-school - like nothing ever happened."

Gylve: from Hank Amarillo to an androgynous entity crouching on graves. Two decades ago Ted had been only able to stare and pinch himself - although he wished to never, never wake up, should this be a dream.

Gylve with that rippled hair like a Russian river nymph's. Washed ashore and trying to cope with it, and, well: look where it brought you.

Gylve, who never stopped playing with said hair, sitting cross-legged when doing interviews and flicking, flicking, flicking his fucking hair.

It has been worse when they were younger, when they had started with Darkthrone. Gylve had been so shy, so careful. He isn't anymore; he talks like a waterfall, kind of catching up with everybody due to his first years of childhood, when there wasn't any other kid to talk to, let alone _play_ with.

Then they had met and Gylve instantly knew how to reflect, how to work with that drivenness which kept a relentless hold of Ted. Ever-inciting, ever-enticing Gylve.

"It's good you're back. Here with me, man," Ted drawls after the maybe ninth beer.

Gylve grins. "Fuck, yes." A exuberant burp erupts from his belly, and clings to his aura in the insipid and sweaty basement beneath Ted's house.

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: I do not claim to know anything about mentioned persons' personal and/or love lives! 
> 
> ... But you can't help with 'Until the Light takes us' being cut like two of the most important figures in the development of Black Metal had delivered [a school yard crush on each other and refused to talk about it](http://www.villagevoice.com/2009-12-01/film/until-the-light-takes-us-missing-details-and-devil-that-s-in-them/), can you? ;)
> 
> I derived most information about the shared musical past of [Gylve](http://i1194.photobucket.com/albums/aa367/BruceheartsSanford/fenriz7.jpg) and [Ted](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcbd0614ek1rjy7opo1_500.jpg) from a fuckload of interviews they gave, bios released by their label etc. In this process I noted that [both aren't very reliable sources](http://i1194.photobucket.com/albums/aa367/BruceheartsSanford/darkthronedk7.jpg), and sometimes their information contradict each other - even if given by the same person, but at different times. Thus it was hard to conclude a decent time line, but hey: I tried! 
> 
> And, yes, Gylve used to slit his forearms listening to music. From what I derived of published information, he doesn't do it anymore. (Or at least it's not his arms.)
> 
> Words in italics are song lyrics:  
> \- KREATOR "Command of the Blade" (from Pleasure to Kill, 1986)  
> \- KATE BUSH "Running up that Hill" (from Hounds of Love, 1985)
> 
> Titles of the subheadings are all titles of DARKTHRONE songs/their first demo - except the first, which is by BATHORY; the respective release dates are hints to the year when the scene took place.


End file.
